


an old man and a bird walk into a bar

by bstarship



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and The Winter Soldier (2021)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Bucky Barnes and the 21st Century, Bucky Barnes is an idiot, Captain America Sam Wilson, Fluff and Crack, Frenemies Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson, Gen, Inspired by a Trailer, Sam Wilson is So Done, hints of flirting, pure dumbassery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship
Summary: If you're looking for stupid and somewhat-domestic Sam and Bucky content, you're in the right place. This is purely just a few thousand words of banter, dialogue, and a little bit of fluff.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 78





	an old man and a bird walk into a bar

**Author's Note:**

> this all happened because of the new tfaws trailer lmao 
> 
> yes it's not irondad i'm sorry but we love sambucky in this household so here u go

**i. the great shampoo debacle of 2024**

  
  


Bucky had been standing in the hair care aisle for the past twenty minutes. The timing might have been an exaggeration, but he couldn’t bring himself to move as he stood before every single brand of shampoo and conditioner in existence. Truth be told, he didn’t necessarily know what they were there for. He knew what soap was—there was no question about that. Frankly, it had always been sought out as a luxury, and now he stood before hundreds of different names and scents that meant nothing to him. Soap was soap; so, why did it matter? 

He hated this. There was no sugar-coating it. The number of choices made his hand sweat in his pocket. He had never been in a Target store before, nor had he heard of it, but the internet told him it might have what he was looking for. But that was where he ran into a roadblock—he didn’t know _what_ he was looking for. 

Suave? Head & Shoulders? Dove? As far as he was concerned, soap had one name. Soap. 

After a few minutes of coming up with excuses to throw at Sam, Bucky picked up a bottle of something called _Old Spice_. He could hear Sam’s voice in his head as he read the ingredients on the back.

_“Appropriate. You bought the one shampoo that’s named after you. Old. Spicy? Not so much. Try musty instead.”_

Bucky placed the bottle back on the shelf and stepped away. Hair was overrated anyway, he thought, placing his hand back into his pocket. He looked down the aisle where the body wash was located. This is why he had never been to a Target before. There were too many options, too many things to look at, and everyone stared at him as if he was the strangest man they have ever laid eyes on. If they knew the extent of it, no one would ever look at him again. 

He left the shampoo aisle behind him while his chest filled with something familiar—panic, frustration, anger, and something akin to fear that had stuck with him ever since he became free of HYDRA’s clutches. There were too many people, too many colors, and too many options. Bucky was out of the Target before he could think to find Sam. 

The breath he took once he stepped out into the cool air was therapeutic. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash… all of that meant little to him. As he said, soap was soap. He used whatever was offered to him, but the idea of choosing for himself made him feel nauseous. Overwhelmed. He had many issues with the 21st-century—Target and their abundance of hair products were among them. 

With a deep exhale, Bucky leaned against the wall beside the storefront doors, facing toward the parking lot where a young couple struggled to put a mirror in the back of their car. It was an amusing moment at best, but his mind was preoccupied with the countless number of shampoo products that plagued his new reality. 

It was all Sam’s fault, to begin with. In all honesty, everything was Sam’s fault. Eggs overcooked? Sam’s fault. Climate change? Sam’s fault. Carpool lanes? Sam’s fault.

And weird, oblong mirrors that were too large to fit in a hatchback? Definitely Sam’s fault. 

Bucky would have opted to spend the next hour people watching if it weren’t for the posters staring back at him from the windows of a Supercuts. He knew of the place; Sam had mentioned it once or twice in conversations about Bucky’s hair. When the topic wasn’t about shampoo, it was about haircuts. And when it wasn’t about haircuts, it was about hairstyles and so on. Bucky didn’t know how to braid or bun. It was hair. He only knew that it was hair. 

With an affirmative hum, Bucky carried himself through the doors of that Supercuts before he could stop himself. 

Sam was drumming along to a Brandy song in the car when the passenger door opened. He had been preparing to rat out Bucky’s ass for making him wait so long—the lickity-split Target trip was over in minutes for him; meanwhile, he assumed Bucky was still stuck trying to decipher the difference between Dove and Suave. But, as he opened his mouth and glanced to his right, his words caught in his throat. 

“What?” Bucky furrowed his brows. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me I look ugly again, okay? Cos’ you’re making me insecure with that kind of shit.” 

Sam, in all honesty, couldn’t find the right thing to say. Instead, he found himself laughing. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he muttered, lowering the volume of his music. “Scared the shit out of me though. Next time, warn a guy before you show up looking like a whole ass new person.”

Bucky ran his hand over the top of his hair and shuttered. “I feel bald,” he said. “It looks bad, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You could’ve at least helped me choose a goddamn shampoo,” he grumbled. As he stared at his reflection in the visor’s mirror, Sam let out another laugh from beside him. “What the hell is an Old Spice anyway?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Sam stated.

“What?”

The look that he gave Bucky was one he wore many times—a mixture of disbelief and amusement that only occurred when his partner said some old-man-nonsense. “You seriously got a haircut because you couldn’t pick out one bottle of shampoo?”

“You wouldn’t help me!”

“I shouldn’t have to, dumbass.” 

Bucky frowned. “I felt like an idiot.”

“Well, you _are_ one.”

“Maybe I should go bald,” he mumbled to himself, scratching at the back of his head. He couldn’t remember his scalp being this itchy before. “Hair sucks.”

Sam broke out into a grin as he put the car in drive. “Damn, tell me how you really feel,” he said with a laugh. “You still have to wash it though. You realize that? Did you buy anything?”

“I bought a haircut.”

“You should get a refund.”

“Just drive the fuckin’ car.”

  
  


**ii.** **allergic to the elderly**

  
  


“You’re not seriously giving me the silent treatment right now.”

Sam raised his brows and smirked, but he kept his mouth shut, turning his head away from Bucky as they strolled down the street. They had been walking in silence for twenty minutes now, nothing but the sounds of passing cars and loud pedestrians to fill the awkward space. Neither of them knew where they were or why they were there; to be honest, Bucky had to _guess_ that they were in Prague. Or maybe they were in Italy. Either way, it didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t talking to him. 

“Fine,” Bucky muttered, “be stubborn. Save your lip-flappin’ for the bad guys. Whatever.”

_“Lip-flapping?”_

“That got you talking?”

Sam laughed, holding his gaze while they walked. “Lip-flapping,” he repeated. “Jesus, dude. I was giving you the silent treatment cos’ you used the words _holy mackerel_ in a sentence. You see no issue with that?”

Bucky shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Holy mackerel,” Sam said. “ _Holy mackerel_. Should I be calling you an old geezer? Would that fit more into your vocabulary? Just let me know if I need to start wearing suspenders and fedoras. If you need me to do that for you, I’ll do it. Just say the word.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Bucky said with an eye roll. “Ha-ha. Yes, I’m old. I get it.”

“Buck, you said the words _holy mackerel_ ,” Sam spoke slowly. “You’re not just old. You’re outdated. You don’t need a senior discount. You need a crash course in 21st-century slang.” 

“What, you want me to say things like _hella_ and _bro_?”

Sam went silent for a moment. “Holy shit,” he said. “It’s like hearing a grampa talk.”

“Yeah, yeah. You know, I liked the silent treatment better. Let’s go back to that.”

“Fine with me.”

They made it five minutes without another word. This time, it was bliss. It didn’t stop the fact that Bucky could practically hear the list of insults running through Sam’s head, but it was better than hearing them aloud. Meanwhile, they were lulled to a city square by sweet music at the hands of a violinist. 

“This can’t be the place,” Bucky muttered as he glanced around. “It’s too crowded.”

“The Grapplers don’t give a shit about collateral damage.”

“Apparently they like music,” he said, pointing in the direction of the music. Standing before the violinist was a familiar hint of red, curly hair. “Think the violinist and the girl are in cahoots?” 

Sam turned to Bucky with a hard glare. “No. No way you just said that.” 

“What the hell did I say wrong this time?”

“Cahoots? Really? _Cahoots?_ ”

“You can’t possibly tell me that you don’t use the word _cahoots_ ,” Bucky said.

“No one uses the word _cahoots_ , dumbass,” Sam told him. “Now move your fat head and quit flapping your lips, _sonny_ , so we can get this mission over with.”

“I hate you, you know that?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. And I don’t care.”

  
  


**iii. bachelor’s degree in looking suspicious**

  
  


Bucky felt ridiculous. And it didn’t help that Sam had repeatedly told him that he looked ridiculous as well. Cufflinks weren’t Bucky’s style, neither were bowties or large gatherings for that matter. So, when they found themselves in the middle of an extravagant gala in search of some no-name target, formalities were all that mattered. There was no such thing as a comfort zone, although Bucky was dramatically beyond his. 

Sam flaunted his formal wear as if he had been born in it. Black tie served him well; meanwhile, Bucky’s neck had been rubbed raw from how often he picked at his collar, and his jacket was a size too small.

“You’re shaking like a damn dog,” Sam stated, handing him a flute of champagne. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Other than the fact that my bladder has been full for four hours,” Bucky began as he peered around the room, “I absolutely hate everything about this. Are you enjoying yourself? Because I’m suffocating. My jacket is too tight.”

Sam smirked and sipped his champagne delicately. He was still running off of the adrenaline from wiping Bucky’s ass at poker, and he thrived off of his partner’s discomfort as well. Champagne had never tasted better than it did at this moment. 

“And you, of all people, were the world’s deadliest assassin,” Sam muttered. He kept his guard up in the presence of a hundred socialites and billionaires, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t cut the bullshit on the down-low. “Can’t blend in and look like a rich kid for two seconds—always having to be the center of attention.”

“I would be a lot less uncomfortable if this place had bathrooms,” Bucky said.

Sam huffed. “You even know how to use a zipper?”

“I’m like, seventy years older than you.” 

“Well, I’m just sayin’—you couldn’t figure out how a bowtie worked earlier, so it wouldn’t shock me if—”

“Can I interest you men in some shrimp tartlet?” asked a waitress as she sidled up with a warm smile. If he wasn’t so concentrated on his discomfort, Bucky would have turned on the charm for her. At the moment, that was Sam’s area of expertise. 

He returned her smile. “Well, don’t mind if I do,” he murmured, winking while he reached for the bite-size appetizer. “What d’ya say, Buck? You want a shrimp tartlet?” 

Bucky smiled as well, nodding as he said, “I hate you,” through his teeth. He reached over with his left arm, and a small ripping sound caused him to pull it right back. “Uh—actually, I’m allergic. T-to shellfish. Thanks. Sorry.” 

The waitress nodded, smiling again before walking away. Once she was gone and out of earshot, Bucky muttered out a sharp, “ _shit_ ” as Sam stared at him with raised brows. 

“The hell?” Sam said. “Are you having a stroke? What’s up with you?”

Bucky didn’t answer verbally—instead, he turned his body to show Sam the sole reason for his strange reaction. A lovely tear right down the back of his sleeve. 

“I told you,” he began, “my jacket is too tight.” 

“Would you look at that, Mister Metal Arm—” Sam chuckled. “Better than an ass tear, I’ll tell you that. Like I said, always have to be the center of attention.”

Bucky sighed and faced the room once again. Unfriendly faces were too concentrated on their own uptight, snobby conversations to care about him, yet in his mind, he stuck out like a sore thumb. “I wasn’t given lessons in how to act natural.”

“They didn’t teach you that at HYDRA prep school?”

“I learned more about how to properly set a broken bone than how to blend in,” he told him. “And how come you’re so comfortable with it, huh? I thought you were more of a soldier than a spy.”

“It has nothing to do with my comfort levels, Buck,” Sam said against the lip of his champagne flute. He shrugged. “It’s simple—I’m just better than you. And if you choose to think otherwise, that’s fine. I’m not the one with toothpaste on their lapel.”

“I—what?” Bucky craned his neck back to look at his collar. When he glanced back up, Sam had fallen into a small fit of laughter before hitting Bucky’s arm.

“Made you look,” Sam said. “But seriously. Go pee. You’re making me anxious. And take off that damn jacket.”

Bucky hummed and handed Sam his champagne flute. “No, actually. I think I’ll keep it on to spite you. Don’t drink that.”

“Wouldn’t even dream of touching the same glass as your crusty lips.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

**iv. happy birthday, pigeon**

  
  


Sam wasn’t going to question the sudden appearance of birdseed at his doorstep. The bag was no less than twenty-pounds, appropriately topped off with a big red bow, yet there was no card. There didn’t have to be. There was only one person in his life who would pull some kind of dumbass prank for his birthday. And that person was nowhere to be seen. 

It was fine. And honestly, it was funny—Sam could admit that. With a grin, he left the bag on the stoop and closed his front door behind him. Maybe he could get a bird feeder or two to amuse the sentiment. Once he entered the foyer of his place, he quickly realized that the fun wasn’t going to end there. 

Loose seeds lined the hardwood floors to his kitchen.

“Oh, I’m gonna kill him,” Sam muttered with a sigh. He followed the trail to the kitchen island where a bowl sat with a note reading _birthday breakfast_. To no surprise, the bowl was full of birdseed as well. “Real hilarious. Very funny, Buck. Really laughing my ass off here.”

The trail, to his dismay, didn’t end there. It carried on down the hall—toward the bathroom where birdseed filled the sink to the brim and toward the bedroom where more seeds coated his sheets. 

“Better have gotten me a vacuum to clean this shit up,” Sam muttered as he bent down to clear off the mess. Beneath the layer of birdseed, a slick new jacket sat with another note reading _happy birthday, pigeon_. Sam rolled his eyes, but, nevertheless, he smiled and shrugged the jacket on with ease. “Impressive work, Barnes.”

With a chuckle, Sam turned toward his mirror and placed his hands in the jacket’s pockets. However, before he could check out his appearance, his hands came in contact with the exact thing he was going to have a terrible time cleaning up. 

“Son of a bitch,” Sam said, pulling out fistfuls of birdseed from the jacket’s pockets. The seed fluttered to the floor without a sound. As soon as his smile left, it returned again. He shook his head with a wide grin and zipped up the jacket. It fit just right. 

  
  


**v. the vibranium x games**

  
  


“Hey, Rapunzel, that’s not yours.”

“Neither is that shirt you stole from me last week, but you’re still wearing it like it is,” Bucky retaliated as he ripped the Captain America shield out of the trunk of a nearby tree. “And Rapunzel? Should I be flattered?”

Sam took the shield from his partner’s grip with an amused smile. “When you said that the shirt didn’t fit you anymore, I just automatically assumed it was up for grabs. You want it back? It has my cooties all over it now.”

“What the hell are cooties?”

“You really are stupid.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “And you’re the nicest person in the world.”

“Only when I have to be.” 

“Hey—” Bucky motioned toward the shield as he took a few steps back. “Pass it here.”

Sam, instead, held the shield closer to his body and shook his head. “Oh, hell no,” he said. “Visitation hours are over. You lost your shield privileges. Try again tomorrow.” 

“C’mon.”

“I’m not throwing it to you like a damn frisbee.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed at the term. “Frisbee? What’s a frisbee?” he asked. The question spurred a startled look from his friend. “Stop staring at me like that. Just tell me what it means.” 

“Go long, old man,” Sam said, “and I’ll _show_ you what it means.”

With a skeptical expression, Bucky did as Sam told, stepping back a few feet while his friend remained in place. Truth be told, Bucky didn’t know what _go long_ meant either, but he had the right idea. He set his hands on his hips and waited for more instructions. 

“I sure hope you have good hand-eye-coordination,” Sam mentioned. In a flash, he tossed the shield in Bucky’s direction without another word.

The impact sent Bucky backward as he caught the shield against his stomach. Following a groan, he sent a glare at Sam who was busy laughing in the distance. Bucky didn’t utter a witty comment or comeback before he tossed the shield right back. However, Sam caught it with ease. 

“ _That_ ,” Sam said, “is a frisbee. Wanna take things up a notch?”

“What do you mean?”

“Time to run, tin man.”

  
  


**vi. you are captain america**

  
  


Bucky hadn’t seen Sam in forty-eight hours. In that span of time, the country witnessed John Walker adorn a version of the Captain America suit on national television, and the news channels rejoiced in it. The Falcon—Sam Wilson—however, was not mentioned. And he was also nowhere to be seen. 

For forty-eight hours, Bucky searched wherever he could. Frustration seeped heavily into his skin, yet it wasn’t due to the fact that his friend had been MIA since Tuesday. It was the government’s total disregard of a noble exchange. It was the country’s blatant ignorance toward the one person who deserved to be Captain America over everyone else. That person wasn’t answering a single one of Bucky’s calls. Bucky had become convinced that he wasn’t sure how to work a cell phone anymore. He hardly knew how to work one to begin with. 

Sam’s arrival at the end of the forty-eight hours came unprompted. No calls, no warning, and no carrier pigeon to let Bucky know that he was coming home. At one in the morning, Sam was silent as he made his way through the kitchen in search of a late-night snack. Bucky’s presence hadn’t been noticed yet. 

“Ever thought of letting a pal know that you’re alive?” Bucky said from the entrance to the kitchen. He had his arms folded over his chest, the metal prosthetic proudly on display without the need to cover-up. There was no hiding from Sam. He knew everything there was to know about Bucky—aside from the things that _Bucky_ didn’t even know about Bucky. 

“Jesus, man _—_ ” Sam dropped the bag of loose cereal onto the tile below him. “Mind not doing that? Just say _hi_ next time, asshole.”

“Am I really the asshole here?”

A sigh echoed through the room. “Sorry,” Sam muttered. “You’re right. I should’ve—I should’ve warned you. Given you a heads-up. I just needed—I don’t know—I needed to chill out for a little bit. Clear my head.”

“If it’s cos’ of that asshole on TV,” Bucky began, “I mean, I get it. He looked like a real prick up there. Those pants weren’t doing him any good.”

“Why’re you lookin’ at his pants?” Sam asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “And, uh—yeah. Sure. It’s about that dude. Fine.”

Bucky twisted his lips as he examined the man across from him. There wasn’t a single hint of joy or amusement on Sam’s face, nothing to show that he had a chance of moving on from this feeling anytime soon. It meant a lot to him. Captain America meant a lot to him. But this? This was bullshit, and Bucky knew it. Except Sam was having a hard time admitting it. 

“So, there’s some guy out there who is trying to be Captain America,” Bucky stated as he ambled his way toward the kitchen. “So what? That doesn’t mean shit. Being Captain America isn’t about how many stars and stripes you can put on a uniform. I knew the real guy from the beginning. He was just some punk who had boiled potatoes for every meal and couldn’t tie his shoes until he turned fifteen.”

Sam stifled a laugh, but his expression hardly twitched. 

“Y’know, I know this hardly means a thing coming from me,” Bucky continued with a shrug, “but Steve gave you his shield for a reason. He saw himself in you. Probably because you’re both dumbasses who like going headfirst into danger, but there’s obviously more than just that. I mean, fuck, Sam—you, of all people, deserve to be Captain America. You _are_ Captain America _._ ”

A crisp silence filtered into the room. Bucky almost regretted the words right when they left his lips, but he quickly realized that he didn’t have to. He was right. Even if Sam didn’t know how to reply, Bucky had meant every word.

A smile grew on Sam’s face. “Buck,” he said, “it means everything coming from you.”


End file.
